The 19th Century bequeathed us four immediately recognizable, vibrant
and enduring fictional icons: Shelley's Frankenstein; Stoker's Dracula;
Melville's Moby
Dick (& Ahab); and Conan Doyle's Sherlock
Holmes. Each of them has, I fear, suffered a horrible fate: they
are so familiar to us, in their many modern incarnations & imitations,
that too few people return to the original texts. This may be particularly
true of Frankenstein, whose portrayals have been so frivolous and distorted.
In fact, in addition to being written in luxuriant gothic prose, the original
novel is one of the most profound meditations on Man and his purpose and
relation to God that has exists in our literature.

Victor Frankenstein is a young man of Geneva who is fascinated by the
sciences and the secrets of life and death:

My temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement;
but by some law in my temperature they were turned not towards childish pursuits
but to an eager desire to learn, and not to learn all things indiscriminately.
I confess that neither the structure of languages, nor the code of governments,
nor the politics of various states possessed attractions for me.
It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I desired to learn; and whether it
was the outward substance of things or the inner spirit of nature and the
mysterious soul of man that occupied me, still my inquiries were directed to the
metaphysical, or in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world.

While at University in Ingolstadt, his life course is set when he hears
a professor lecture on modern chemistry:

'The ancient teachers of this science,'said he, 'promised
impossibilities and performed nothing. The modern masters promise very
little; they know that metals cannot be transmuted and that the elixir of life is
a chimera. But these philosophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble in dirt,
and their eyes to pore over the microscope or crucible, have indeed performed
miracles. They penetrate into the recesses of nature and show how she works
in her hiding-places. They ascend into the heavens; they have
discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe. They
have acquired new and almost unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of
heavens, mimic the earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own
shadows.'

Such were the professor's words--rather let me say such were
the words of the fate--enounced to destroy me.

Victor goes on to discover, through the study of chemistry, the secret
of bringing dead flesh to life. Inevitably he tests his discovery
and of viewing his creation cries:

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate
the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavored to form?
His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful.
Beautiful! Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles
and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his
teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid
contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as
the dun-white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion
and straight black lips.

And so, repelled by the mere appearance, the inevitable imperfection,
of his work, Frankenstein rejects the creature utterly. However,
unlike the mute stupid monster of the movies, Shelley's monster is articulate
and sensitive and longs for companionship, but all of humankind reacts
to him with horror. And so he demands that Frankenstein build him
a mate. When Frankenstein refuses to provide him with a companion,
the creature resolves to destroy those who Frankenstein loves.

Finally, Frankenstein determines that he must destroy the creature and
pursues him into the frozen wastes of the North.

It all makes for a rousing adventure, but there is much more here.
Frankenstein, through his work, has attempted to become a god, but
his creation is a horrible disappointment & so, is banished from him.
Meanwhile, his flawed creation, filled with ineffable longing and confusion,
wanders in exile seeking the meaning of his existence. And what is
the impulse that he settles upon, but another act of creation; a mate must
be created for him. The Biblical parallels are obvious, but they
work on us subtly as we read the novel. In the end, the uncontrollable
urge to create, to imitate God, stands revealed as Man's driving force.
And the inevitable disappointment of the creator in his creation, is revealed
as the serpent in the garden.

If you've never read this book, read it now. If you've read it
before, read it again.